


Dearer for its mystery

by Petra LeMaitre (Petra)



Category: Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-29
Updated: 2007-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra%20LeMaitre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of 'Paladin of Souls,' Ista continues in her vocation and receives an urgent summons that frightens her deeply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dearer for its mystery

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jamjar for patient handholding and help with sustaining the voice.
> 
> Written for Shanola22.

 

 

In the first month following the reclamation of Porifors, Ista had several occasions to thank the five gods for her calling; not, as her colleagues in the faith might have thought, for the fact of it, but for the colors she was permitted to wear. The public face of a somewhat mad dowager royina would have been more suited to the Mother's green, but had she been forced to endure in that role for a moment longer, she might have gone mad in truth.

"I only wish He had chosen a more practical color for His acolytes," she said to Learned dy Cabon.

He smiled in an expression that made her think entirely too clearly of their mutual divine patron. "White is the basis for all things, is it not?"

"All things spiritual, all blessings, all curses, and all stains," she said, and brushed at the newest one on her robe. "I shall have a map of all Jokona before we are home." The precise location of 'home' was yet to be decided, in truth; she had as little wish to return to Valenda's torpor as to Cardegoss the horrors of the Zangre. It was far from certain that she should return to either. Her peregrinations had taken her deep into what had once been foreign lands, where a saint of the Bastard would have been as ripe a prize as the royina Iselle herself. Though her loyal officers were at her side for protection, and her god had sent her more than one prophetic dream that saved all of their thumbs, tongues, and lives, she knew all too well that He could not protect her from all earthly perils.

She had come to accept, inasmuch as she wanted to accept it, that her only permanent home lay in the Bastard's hands. After her work on His behalf, he would take her into his realm; not the hell where the demons ran, but whatever fine reward He kept secret and safe for His servants.

dy Cabon had had rather longer than she had to accept his calling and his fate. Moreover, he was of a rather more affable bent towards the gods, and followed Ista's odd entourage without question or complaint. "It will be a record, my lady, of what you have done for your people." He looked over the dusty hills, recently annexed by Chalion-Ibra and a matter of some debate in the palace of the Fox as to precisely which domain they were part of, in the case of some tragedy befalling either the Royce or Royina. Five gods spare us, thought Ista, and smiled at herself for it, as well as at dy Cabon for his quiet faith.

"I do not know that they are all my people, except in the sense that we are all the gods' children, Learned, but they are all certainly in need of His help." In the previous four weeks, she had dispatched two different demons back to their home, using the same process that she had when she faced the Dowager Princess of Jokona. Both had been minor spirits, possessed of the minds of a frog and a horse, respectively. Traveling to find them had been the main use of her time.

"When the battle ends at Visping," dy Cabon said, and it had all of the sonorousness of a prayer, as if the battle had been going on for years. "They will all be your people then. Our countrymen, if you like."

Ista thought that she would like to see dy Cabon attempting to convince Jokonans of that, but she bit back the wish. They would be no people of hers while they called the Quintarian faith heresy, and she would be no royina nor queen of theirs while she wore her white robes, however stained. "We travel with armed guards against the day when Jokona is as Chalionese as Cardegoss," she said, and nodded to dy Cabon. "I would consult with ser dy Arbanos about tonight's lodgings."

"Of course, Royina," dy Cabon said, and nodded back. It reminded her of the first time he had acknowledged her sainthood, in that benighted period when she had attempted to renounce the gods.

She was little more fond of Them now, but had had no choice in opening her heart to them. The more she rode with awareness of what she could allow Them to do, the more she could see Their hands in the everyday lives of the people. The girl who had found the demon-ridden frog had a godlight about her at the age of ten, muted but flickering in the light blue of the Daughter.

The girl's parents had been less than pleased when the saint of the Bastard wished to speak to them about their child, but they had been flattered to consult with the royina on the matter. In the balance, when they had seen and understood that both august and fearful personages stood before them in the unprepossessing person of Ista, they had blessed themselves -- Quatrene -- and listened.

Gods spare both them and their child from sainthood, but they seemed to take the news that she might be called to the temple with bravery. It would, at least, relieve them for the need to provide a dowry.

Lord Illvin dy Arbanos rode at the front of the column, as wiry and handsome as he had been the first time Ista saw him, but with the full force of health in his face. "How do you, my lady?" he asked, as politely as any courtier, but the smile he gave her was something personal, a joy in seeing her rather than the pleasure a man took in any beautiful woman.

She smiled back at him. His affection still surprised her with its warmth and surety. "Quite well, and you?"

"I would do better if I could assure you of reaching any hospitable town this evening. Unfortunately, the most I can promise is that there is a glen, perhaps another hour onward, where there is a stream, and where we may rest for the night." He tilted his head slightly. "Unless you have had some communication to do otherwise."

"The gods are as silent as the stars," Ista said. "As they have been for this past week. I suppose we should take that as a good sign, that there is nothing we need to save from possession in the country near to us, but it seems rather like the calm before the storm."

"You have never been a soldier, my lady," Illvin said, and he shook his head. "If you were, you would know to treasure every quiet moment." His smile deepened slightly. "As I treasure these moments simply riding with you."

The pleasure of such simple statements of affection had not palled. There had been so many years without them -- without even the suggestion of them -- that Ista smiled at Illvin and half-despaired of herself. She was no blushing maiden to fall all over herself at the first smile from a man, but her former disillusionment with love only served to make this indulgence sweeter. "There are things that I can treasure indeed, my lord."

His brows quirked, but he nodded in acknowledgment. "So I have seen." His smile grew private. "When shall we make camp?"

It was hardly past noon. "Not for some hours yet." She did not add, "Unless the gods will otherwise," but one of the joys of her small company was that she did not feel constrained to do so. Had she allowed the Temple to weigh her down as befit a saint and royina, she would have had to play the part.

In her tiny entourage, the only part she was constrained to play was that of Ista, and few things had ever suited her as well as forming that role, day by day.

"As it please you, my lady. Do let me know if your plans change." Illvin glanced at the sky, then at her horse.

"We ride, then." As they had ridden, day after day, barring those times when they had a specific destination: following the roads and the whims of the gods, and trusting both to take them where they needed to be. "Until Their couriers come with marching orders." Trusting that there was some direction to the apparent directionlessness made her teeth itch.

"Royina," Foix dy Gura said, coming up beside her. "There is a town ahead, half an hour's ride from here."

Ista smiled at him. "Thank you, Foix." She smiled at Illvin. "Perhaps that is our destination."

The town had very little to offer in the form of hospitality to a Quintarian saint and her retinue, though the people backed away when they rode down the shabby main street. There were neither curses nor rocks thrown at the horses, which seemed a good enough start. Ista peered at the houses that they passed with her second sight, but saw nothing more extraordinary than people going about their daily business, soul-stuff burning with the light that it always possessed. No demons troubled any of the people she could see, and none shone with the light of a god.

"Shall we stop at the temple?" Illvin asked.

It was Quatrene, as befit the faith of the people, and though its walls were painted well enough, it showed the same signs of use as the rest of the town. This was no grand cathedral built to awe the people who worshiped there, but rather a building dedicated to acknowledging the gods as a part of daily life.

Ista dismounted and handed her horse's reins to Foix. She glimpsed the inside of the temple: clean, simple, and like its outside; then her vision clouded with blue and white streaks and she fell to her knees.

 _Help her!_ a Voice said, young and bright as all the springtimes of the world, but not laughing, not now.

 _To Visping, my royina,_ said the Bastard's voice, as full as his half-Sister's, and far more familiar to Ista's inner ear.

She choked, trying to find a response. _How many of You must I serve?_

The Daughter's voice sighed. _My saint's eyes are fixed on worldly things, and my Mother is concerned. Would you deny Us now?_

Help her, the Voice said. Ista shivered, though the temple was not cold. _Help whom?_

She could not see the Bastard, but she felt His hand on her shoulder, as if he were taking the role of a father for her. _To Visping. Quickly._

There were thousands of souls in Visping, but only a few could need Ista's specific help. It might be any number of innocent souls besmirched by a demon.

It might be, but Ista had not survived as long as she had under the shadow of a curse by expecting the best. "Iselle," she said aloud.

The Presences did not answer her.

"Ista!" Illvin called, and he was there, the warmth of his hand covering her shoulder where the god's fingers had touched moments before. "What is it?"

She shivered again. "We must --" she could hardly form the words. After all of the loved ones that the gods had torn from her, she could not encompass the thought that Iselle was now in danger. "We must get to Visping. As close to immediately as can be done."

Illvin looked as pale as he had when she first saw him. "To Visping?" He took her hand and helped her to her feet. "Royina, are you certain?"

Ista signed the Five, trying to make her hand stop shaking. "I have spoken with the courier. Would that I did not know the seal on the message so intimately."

He put his arm around her waist and she leaned on him, seeking the balance she had lost as much as the comfort of the touch. Liss came into the temple as they turned to go, her eyes on Ista's face. "Is all well, Royina?"

"No," Ista said, and blessed and cursed the circumstances that made her able to be so frank. "We must get to the coast even faster than you can ride."

Liss frowned and nodded. "As you command. Do we leave the roads for this?"

Ista bit her lip and cursed her god. If she knew it was Iselle, then nothing would slow her from reaching her daughter's side as fast as she could go. If it were someone else -- she stopped the thought, shaking with the effort. Another person beloved of the Daughter would be in just as dire trouble as Iselle, and would require the same speedy help. Neither would be well-served by a foolhardy saint galloping horses to death over rough terrain. "No," she said. "Not yet."

"I'll tell the men, my lady," Liss said, and sprinted on her strong young legs to do so. Ista followed, still leaning on Illvin, her legs shaking with fear and the residual awe of meeting the gods. No matter how many times it happened, it left her breathless.

"How far are we from Visping?" Ista asked Illvin. She did not have a clear map of the Jokonan countryside in her mind, but she prayed that the trip would not be too long for her to help. Surely if she were too far away, the gods would not have called her, she told herself, but she could not make herself trust that it was so. The gods could only urge men's steps in the subtlest ways, and even saints could fail.

"A day, perhaps two," Illvin said. "It depends what roads we must take, and who we meet on them."

Two days was not overmuch, but it was more than long enough to worry Ista. If she could fly, she might still be too late, and that was not a miracle granted to her. "Then we must begin. I only -- hope -- that there was no reason for us to be in this village."

Illvin squeezed her hand, clearly hoping to reassure her. "Surely the gods would have made that clear."

Ista bit her lip hard. "It is not in Their nature to waste the breath They do not take on explaining things to us." She accepted his help in remounting her horse, though she hardly needed it. "To Visping," she said, and the men who followed her smiled.

They could not know how black her sight grew even in the first hour. She had not seen her own child cursed since poor Teidez was a baby, but she had felt it as clearly as the swaddling clothes. Ista dreaded seeing any such curse around her daughter with the Sight she had fought to deny; she had never been mad, not even in the darkest hours, but watching the gods eat at Iselle might drive her so in truth.

Ista did not see the next town they visited, nor the next. They might have harbored runaway sorcerers as strong as Queen Joen and yet gone unremarked and unchecked, for her thoughts were all on her daughter. She berated herself for worrying so about Iselle when it might be any other person -- but surely Royse Bergon was the Son of Autumn's province, if not in truth the Father's. Iselle herself had passed to the Mother's hands, or might have done. The ways of the gods -- Ista hunched her shoulders and urged her horse faster, though it kept to the speed of its fellows -- were shadowed, even in their clearest moments.

It might even be that some misfortune had befallen Iselle's chancellor, dy Cazaril, a man as dear to the Daughter as ever a man could be -- though he, too, might have left Her fair regard. If that were the case, it did not bode well for Chalion, for he was staunch in his support of the royacy and the people.

Even the thought of some unknown force bedeviling Cazaril was more acceptable than the image of Iselle bewitched. All of Ibra lay on her fair shoulders, as well as Chalion. The five gods knew well that Chalion could not bear another weak ruler, but equally how ravaged Ibra was by the strength of the Fox. Iselle needed her balance, her sight, and her own strength. Any inhuman forces that pushed her one way or another endangered two nations.

She hardly knew when the sun set, nor that they had stopped, until Illvin called her name. "My lady," he said quietly, "we must rest, if only for a few hours."

Rest was the last thing she wanted, but the horses did not have the same drive as she did, and her traveling court did not bear enough money to replace their mounts with others of similar quality. To do so would have left them open to all the bandits on the road, and no amount of looking on by the gods could have protected them in that case. "Please you, make it as short as you may."

Illvin handed her down from her horse and Liss escorted her to a narrow bed in a tiny inn. It was no place for a royina, but it suited a saint's station beautifully, especially in this Quatrene land. She would not apply to any temples at this hour of the night; in the day, the divines might see the strength of her force, but when they came limping in, footsore, old habits of cutting off thumbs might recur all too readily.

As soon as she lay down, she was in Visping, though she had never seen the port city before. She knew it because Iselle was there, her features set and furious, and Bergon was beside her. He was a proud young man, and the pain on his face made Ista want to curse. Even with her dream-eyes she could see the purple demon-light in Iselle. How had it come there? "I ride to your side," Ista said, but however true the dreaming was, Iselle and Bergon were oblivious to her presence. "As fast as hooves can carry me." The sight of the swirling demon in Iselle's belly made her want to rise from her bed and run, if only that would get her there faster.

"There must be some recourse," Bergon said.

Iselle only blinked in response, then looked straight through Ista. Ista turned to see where her daughter's gaze fell. dy Cazaril, his face as anguished as Bergon's, stood there, a thick book of theology in his hands. "We need a saint of the Bastard." His mouth quirked in a wry, mirthless smile. "Praise the five gods that we know where to find one."

Iselle looked at her lap. "If she can be found. She may be nearly anywhere by now."

"The couriers will find her," Bergon said.

"Damn these Quatrene lands." Cazaril shook his head and searched Iselle's face as though he still had the Sight to observe her deeper turmoil. "Would that there were anyone closer to hand."

Iselle pressed her lips together. Ista recognized the expression as one concealing vast pain, and winced to see her own gestures in her child's face. If she could shield Iselle from the world -- she would not, but she would have liked to have had the option. "I didn't even know --" she shook her head. "It would be better, perhaps, to speak to the Mother's temple again."

"You didn't know what?" Ista asked, though she knew her voice was unlikely to bridge the distance.

She woke herself up by saying the words, and Liss as well. "My lady?" Liss asked.

"Only a damned prophetic dream," Ista said, and forced herself to lie back down though her muscles screamed with tension. "Sleep while you can."

"Yes, Royina," Liss said.

Ista tried to take her own advice, but she could not decide whether she wished for more of the dream or less. It was not in the slightest bit restful, but if she knew what she would be facing, she might be able to plan. After some tossing and turning, she told herself firmly that whatever she wanted, the gods would give her what They thought best. She slept, eventually, and did not dream anything true.

Liss woke her well before dawn, aching and still exhausted, and the company breakfasted on bread and cheese before setting off again. Ista told Learned dy Cabon of her dream, and his round face creased with worry. "I cannot say what it may mean, Royina."

"Nor I," she admitted, "though it came from the gods. Perhaps because it came from Them, I cannot explain it. All I can be sure of is that Iselle is in danger."

dy Cabon nodded. "That much seems straightforward, but the precise form of her danger is not obvious."

Ista clamped her jaw shut on intemperate words. It would not help to curse dy Cabon for his god's failure to make things clear, nor to curse the god for His shortcomings. "If I have another vision, Learned, I shall be sure to let you know."

"I am at your service, Royina, and that of the gods," he said, and made a gesture of blessing. It did not ease her.

Their horses were tired, but not spent, when the first scout from Visping port rode back with Liss to greet them. He wore the colors of Chalion and galloped without fear, slowing his horse quite close to the oncoming group. "Dowager Royina Ista," the boy said, or perhaps he was a man. It was hard to tell. "The Royina and Royse have sent a party seeking you. My commander bids me welcome you to Visping, and to tell you that a courier has been sent to their Highnesses to tell them you approach."

This confirmation of the dream made Ista's fingers clench on her reins until they dug into her palms. "I thank you, and your commander," she said, keeping her tone as measured as she could. "Are there fresh horses in your camp that I might borrow?"

"Only three," the boy said, looking ashamed. "But yes. They should be readied by the time you reach the camp."

Ista sighed in relief. She only needed one horse, in this newly subdued land, but it would relieve Illvin and dy Cabon to accompany her. "That will be sufficient."

"I will return to the camp, then, and make certain that they are ready." The scout wheeled his horse and set off as fast as it would go.

He was only a few minutes ahead of Ista and her party, but it was sufficient time that she only had to wait a few moments before she mounted the fresh horse, with the camp commander holding its reins. "Gods go with you, lady," he said.

She made a quick sign of blessing. "And with you. Thank you for your assistance."

The speed with which they passed along gratified Ista and reminded her of her new station. The eager gelding she rode had not been readied for a dowager royina, but for a saint, one who might well be able to avert a disaster. If only she could see what the disaster truly was.

The town of Visping itself showed some signs of war, even at the speed at which they cantered through the streets, following the scout to the Royina's residence. He cried, "Make way!" and the carters scrambled aside as fast as they could drive their beasts.

"Surely this haste is unnecessary," dy Cabon said, clinging to his horse. He had become more hardened over his time traveling with Ista, but he was no courier, and never would be.

Ista said nothing, but noted a burned block of houses just within the walls. Visping was no more safe than Iselle was, it seemed, for all that both were surrounded by soldiers.

She could see the demon light through the houses, through the people, before the scout slowed his horse, and dread coiled in her stomach as she dismounted, too frightened and impatient to wait on Illvin's assistance. The demon was descending -- Iselle came downstairs in the house and rushed out, her skirts lifted high. She was slim as she had been before she bore her daughter, paler than normal, and seemed ill in some undefinable way. "Mother!"

Ista embraced her and nearly fainted as comprehension struck her. This close, she could see where the true problem lay, and what Iselle had not known before this supernatural tragedy struck.

She bore not only the demon, but a child.

No -- worse than that, the demon had wound itself around that beginning of a life and warped it in ways that not even saints' eyes could see. "Oh, Iselle," Ista said. "Tell me what happened."

"Then it's true?" Iselle's voice was shaking. "But surely you can make it better -- you cleansed Jokona."

The Bastard had cleansed Jokona's queen and her pet sorcerers, working through Ista. It was not quite the same as looking at Iselle with an evil purple spirit winding through her belly, as dark as the curse had ever been.

Ista considered for a moment that she might be going mad again, and what the consequences of her madness would be for her child, her grandchild, and her beleaguered country. She had not always faced the curse alone, either, but what good had the gods been, then?

 _Damn you,_ she said to her god in the privacy of her own mind, where only He could hear her. _You can take this from her, but what will it have wrought?_

His Voice was in her mind, and He hesitated as if He were the child and she had somehow become His Mother. _There is only one way to see the future, even for Us._

 _Wait and see,_ she said, and she made her hands unclench from where they had fisted in her skirts. _Can You promise me nothing?_

 _Would you have Me lie to you? You, my Ista?_ His Voice was wry and soft in her ear. _I would never have thought that of you._

 _It is Your damned creature that afflicts her. Can You not tell me whether it has wrought something terrible?_ Ista bit her lip, hoping that the pain would ground her. Somewhere nearby, Iselle was near to tears.

_If you need a healing miracle, you may wish to apply to My Mother._

He did not remind Ista that she had rejected His Mother, and that if she had not, the history of all their lives, not least Iselle's, might well be different. He was not often a merciful god, but He saw her well enough to know that she would not need such a reminder.

 _I may well do so,_ Ista thought, and shivered.

 _Think on this, if nothing else,_ He said. _The uncertainty you face is no more nor less than that which attends any pregnancy, any form of waiting. Even We are never sure what will come of them._

Ista snorted. _You'll pardon me if I don't pass that on. I expect Iselle will be far more concerned this time than last._ But she remembered her own pregnancy, and how she had prayed for a boy, and how all of the ladies of her court and country had pressed their remedies upon her. Iselle must be facing the same sorts of madness.

 _Her thoughts are her own._ The Bastard's voice grew slightly impatient, mocking Ista with the sort of edge that was the only spur that could move her. _I did not send you here to speak to you all afternoon._

It seemed stranger to perform a miracle on Iselle than on a tiny possessed creature with no name, or even on a sorcerer. If Ista's hands slipped, if something were to go wrong -- _I am here,_ the Bastard said, and she could feel the warmth of His breath. _You know what you must do. Do it._

It was all the comfort she would receive from Him, she knew, and all she truly needed. Ista opened her eyes and reached for Iselle, not with her physical hands, but with the hands she used to manipulate demons.

"Oh," Iselle said when Ista took hold of it and pulled it away. "Oh --" and she shook.

Ista swallowed the demon, the process familiar enough not to chill her to the bone any longer, but still not what she would term normal. She listened hard for any Voice with advice for her, reassurance, or any other sort of divine words of wisdom.

There was nothing. The Bastard had gone.

dy Cabon would tell her that that was because all of the gods' wisdom came from Their worshippers.

Ista pursed her lips and prayed for some sort of reassurance. Still there was nothing but the continued beat of her heart and Iselle's steadying breathing. "It's gone," she said.

Illvin said, "Five Gods be praised," and the men of Ista's retinue signed themselves, as did Beatriz, Iselle's maid, who had followed her into the courtyard apace.

"I know." Iselle took her hands and gave her the fivefold kiss of thanks, as a proper royina, before she embraced her mother, more like a little girl than she had been in a long while. She did not feel like a little girl in Ista's arms. She was a mother, not only to her own daughter, but to Chalion-Ibra. Still, when she shivered, Ista stroked her hair. "Mother," she said, and paused. "Perhaps I should say, Blessed One?"

Ista laughed, her voice dry and cracked. It was nothing like mirth that inspired her, only the need to react somehow. "You needn't." The words were no less true if she denied Iselle the right to use them, and no more true if they were said. However, she treasured being Iselle's mother, sane, lovable, and acceptable, more than being the Bastard's saint, and the first title was more to her taste.

"As it please you." Iselle took a deep breath. "Do you know -- is everything all right?"

Ista bit back the urge to remind Iselle that there was never a time when such a thing was true. The words not comfort her. "I don't know."

"Ah." Iselle kissed her cheek and let her go. "Ought I to pray, then?"

It was not a course of action Ista would recommend to her worst enemy, but to her child -- "Perhaps. The gods were watching over you all this time. They have done what They could, at least for the moment." She thought the worst words she knew at the Bastard.

Iselle nodded. "Still, it would not do to forget Them."

As if one could, Ista thought, but did not say aloud. "The Bastard suggested --" Iselle's expression changed, her eyes widening, and Ista had to stop herself from mocking her god aloud. The suggestion was only common sense. "He said perhaps you would be best served by petitioning His Mother for a healing miracle."

The color returned to Iselle's cheeks in a flush. "Of course." She kissed her mother's hand. "Please bear Him my utmost thanks for the healing you have given me."

"I shall," Ista promised. She neglected to mention the curses she would heap upon His head for the lack of certainty. He could bear them.

"Will you rest your mounts?" Iselle asked. "Or must you go on another urgent errand?"

There were no insistent voices in Ista's head, and no visions plaguing her. "It would be best if we were to pause here for the night." She made herself smile. "Besides, it would be rude if I were to visit and not even greet your royal husband."

Iselle's answering smile was brief and bright. "Not if you had another task as urgent as this one."

"Not at present." Ista let her breath out and stopped listening quite so carefully. Illvin took her arm. He was growing quite skilled at knowing when she had returned entirely to herself, and when the passing exaltation of speaking with the gods left her with only exhaustion.

"It would be best to get the horses stabled and rubbed down now, my lady," he said.

"Of course," she said, and leaned on his arm more than she would like. "I believe I would like to rest, as well." Her knees shook. "Perhaps even before I pay my respects to Royce Bergon."

Iselle looked concerned and nodded. "Whatever you need, mother. I'll let him know you'll be along as soon as you can."

"My thanks." Ista squeezed Illvin's arm. "It was an exhausting ride."

"Yes, of course." Iselle glanced at Beatriz, who nodded and went back into the house. "Do come inside -- unless you wanted to stop at the temple first."

She had not even noted the town's temple in the headlong rush. "I will visit it later," she said. "The gods know I have not forgotten them."

"Certainly not," Iselle said, and signed herself. "And may they never forget us."

Ista sighed. Her inner ears were undisturbed by holy voices, but she knew it was only a matter of time, whether the gods wanted to call her to saintly duties or home to Their own realms. "I am certain They never do."

 


End file.
